


Mercy, Little Baby

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Guns, M/M, Night, Smoking, bjs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:14:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Man I don't know it's 3am I think it's about a film noir au. It's Destiel, that's for sure. There's guns and butter and whatever else you could want so have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy, Little Baby

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what the fuck i am doing so have fun matey

Slamming the door of his coach, mossy hues paneled up the neon sign of the club; he’d been meaning to make a  _stop_ at this place…for reasons. Finding the time, Dean had finally returned. His gun, carefully poised at his right hip, was still warm from prior use. The slight singe that normally followed closely behind it was avoided by a bit of cloth wrapped around the barrel. Tucked away from clear sight, the Winchester skittered, unseen, into the club.

The sound of muted and stifled horns was heard from outside, but was surely grand at its full ability; the quirks of notes bounced around the crowded club. His face was hidden by the felt of his hat’s brim, and he sought to keep it that way. Covering his face with his coat’s collar, his gaze continued seeping out from the fabric; his glare gutted every human he saw about the smoke-filled quarters. Until he met a look that flickered and fought against his own.

Oceanic could be a word to describe it, but not even the God’s mighty sea could match the waves and life that were rattled deep within the lithe, oddly familiar man’s skull. Blue shot straight back at Dean like a careless dead man’s Webley-Fosbery, and he could nearly feel his frame get knocked from the calculated stance he had fought to upheld.

Castiel sat at the bar, sipping at the glass that was perched before him after a lucid order was transferred between the barkeep and himself. Seeing a mimicking ogle, he smirked, giving a slight nod to the male across the crowded room. 

A gulp stuck in the Winchester’s throat, but would be seen as unfaltering from an outside view. Behind the cover he’d created, a Cheshire grin grew over his countenance.  _He was the one,_ Dean thought,  _he’s perfect._  Seeing as there was little time to waste, seeing that he had already been spotted by his target, he crossed eagerly towards way of the bar. He slid into a stool, nodding slightly along to the heavy bass that happened to trickled into the live music that was offered. He taps a bruised knuckle on the bartop, signaling to the keeper to bring a fresh pint.

“ _M’Castiel,”_ muttered the blue-eyed man, letting his hands wrap around his cold glass.

Dean continued nodding with the beat of the crowd, “.. _Dean.”_

One quick pull played over Cas’ lips once more, almost extracting a loose chuckle. He lolled his head forward, turning to project his ultramarines into the face of the male across the counter, “ _You oughta have more sense than to take chances with strangers like this..”_  His words were capped with the nearly inaudible sound of a gun being cocked into position.

A pink tongue wriggled to wet Dean’s taut lips for speech, only to find its place in a strict and unplanned grin. His head falls back loosely, shooting his own verdant orbs back. He lets a few moments pass before retorting.

“ _It’s funny..but practically all the people I know were strangers when I met them.”_

Castiel’s smirk falters a bit, keeping the gun stationary below the counter. Dean’s eyes narrow barely, shooting down to the bartop, acknowledging the male’s concealed weapon. Green flitters about the wood to only rescan up the man opposite him. His eyes slither over every button on Cas’ dress shirt, gliding over the pressed suit’s collar. He creeps up his neck, dancing over his prominent Adam’s apple.

Dean readjusts on the stool, not exactly meeting Castiel’s uninterrupted watch. Continuing, the Winchester’s hues caress at the obviously unshaven underchin of the man, pricking over every shadow placed upon the feature. He stops at Cas’ lower lip, quickly thinking to nibble ‘incoherently’ at his own. His own teeth gently tug at the plush flesh as his peer glosses up to the unnatural blues that caught him in the first place.

Castiel watches nothing but Dean’s eyes, only to drop to the Winchester’s lips as the nip plays upon it. _Heh, that’s it,_ Cas thinks, pressing himself, and the gun, closer. He juts his jaw forward, allowing his mouth to form harshly around his words, “ _Up..and out.”_

Seeing that he is clearly at crossroads (being shot, or following the oddly intriguing man), Dean chooses to carefully slip away from his barstool, _“Alright, chief..”_ Standing upright, he nonchalantly places his hand over his hip, and his gun. He moves to amble towards the door.

“ _Kid, you think I was born yesterday; hand it over,”_ Castiel quickly spits. He still sits at the bar, gun hidden among the smoke and drunken air that lingered. The barkeep approaches, a towel in hand. The tender shoots Dean a glare that would peel wallpaper and Dean finally submits, sliding his only physical defense across the sticky, filthy bar. 

“ _Thanks, kid. Now get out.”_

Dean, in peculiar tone, nods obediently, dipping out equally as hidden and unseen as he did when he first emerged in. Castiel, seeing that Dean was quite the listener, hides his gun within the folds of his suit as he stands to exit. He tosses a few dollars onto the bar for the booze intake of the two and scuttles quickly behind his new victim.

The Winchester lets his head loll forward in mock-surrender as he slithers through the club’s front door. Castiel waves, smiling wildly to the band as his free hand fishes out a cigarette. Leafing through his pockets, he finds a lighter and ignites the stick that happily sat between the man’s lips. A cloud floats from his lips as he closely skips out the door.

The night is crisp; breath is visible. Dean huffs in an irritated fashion at the quick changes in temperature; Castiel, expecting the weather, has no change in countenance. They both can’t help but look heavenward tonight; their faces, both painted beautifully with the shadows of the night and the piercing, red neon from above, carve out pale into the street. Stars gently toy with the black sky; clouds are water-colored here and there over the massive canvas that was pulled taut over their heads and the buildings that housed them in.

Toking at the cigarette, Castiel nods his head towards the rather dark alley that hung around the side of the club. Dean grumbles a few words under his clouded exhale and rounds the corner, his head still hung forward. His head twitches to the side slightly, watching as Castiel trails slowly behind. Once completely behind the corner, sheathed within the darkness, Dean pivots on his weight on his heels and completely faces the blue-eyed man.

A wicked grin twists around Cas’ cigarette as he looks the Winchester up and down, _“What’s the big idea?”_

_“This.”_

An angry retort scrapes over Dean’s teeth as he swings a cruel arm, and balled fist, towards the man. A chuff escapes his lips as he contorts his body to throw all his mass into the hit. Castiel, however, in seeing the attack moments before it occurs, merely raises a lazy arm to block the courageous move. He outstretches his other arm to catch Dean’s falling forearm, and bends it back, forcing the Winchester to no longer meet Cas’ gaze.

“ _Hey!”_ Dean yelps, writhing to break the oddly strong hold.

“ _Hm? What’d you say? I can’t hear you over the sound of your face kissing the pavement, kid,”_ Castiel growled back, raising a foot to kick out the Winchester’s knees.

Surely, his legs break out from beneath him and his finely pressed pants scrape audibly against the moist pavement; his hands move wildly for support among the trash and junk that was littered around the alley. Twisting his back to face the man, Dean is only met with a puff of smoke directly into his eyes and a swift dress-shoe heel to his jaw. A loose chortle rattles from the man above as the Winchester boy relinquishes a low whimper while crimson begins to drip over the torn flesh of his jaw and lip.

“ _You son of a bitch,”_ Dean hissed; his grassy orbs falling deep into the subtle muddy stomp that could only be acquired after a boot crushed through a watered down garden. His eyes howled angrily upon Castiel, who contently stood overhead.

“ _Quit being snippy, kid; it ruins the experience,”_ Castiel responded, mimicking the angsty coddle that resided within the floored man’s tone. A few more loose exhales of cigarette smoke rose into the air, and, floating up into the painted sky, found solitude that only final invisibility could obtain. Ashing his cancer-stick, a wider smirk grew and crept over the man’s face. Reddened and broken vision from the Winchester on the ground begged against the man that hovered above and was only met with burning ash, and the tip of the cigarette, against his neck.

A wretched and curdling screech crawled from deep within Dean’s throat and into the damp, nearly silent night. From inside, nothing would be heard over the horns, drums, and bass that kept the club so warm; but not even the familiar jazz hooks could coax the warmth into the solid ice air that laminated around Castiel and his horrible intentions.

Blood continued to drip from the boy’s face, forming small pools here and there about the alleyway as well as over his grey, pinstripe suit jacket. He sucked his swelling lip in, cooing over the pain that clawed at the sensitive nerves.

Castiel, now relived of his smoking, reached a hand down to the man’s face. His tender grip gently brushed over Dean’s underchin and jaw for merely a second before he yanked his skull upwards. Forcing his face to meet the same blue gaze that caught him in the first place, Castiel spoke loudly, poising his final order.

_“Get down, and suck.”_

_“W-What?”_

_“Suck, kid.”_

_“Sorry, man. I-I don’t play for that te-!”_

Dean’s words were cut off as another booted heel collided with his ribs, surely tearing a bit of muscle in the process. Curled over, his arms wrapped around his midsection and his head arched forward in an effort to create a ball of protection. Seeing this, Castiel wretches forward, delivering a gutting left undercut to the other side of Dean’s face.

The Winchester’s bones contort and bend at Castiel’s will as he continues barraging the man with kicks to the midsection, skull, and legs. Blood now seeps through the man’s dress shirt. The white clearly shows the crimson mottles now that the jacket was ripped from his frame. He heaves, aches, and quivers now. His body begs and his inaudible words and gesture mimic.

Finally, Castiel fishes out the gun from earlier, pointing it directly at Dean’s temple.

_“Get on your knees, kid.”_

Obediently, Dean raises a hand, sputtering out a few drops of blood in the process.

_“D-Don’t shoot.”_

“ _Then back up. Against that wall.”_

Nodding, Dean crawls back, wincing at nearly every movement. He scrunches against the brick, resting on his knees. His shoes touch the wall and, as he relaxes into the position, his head leans against the brick as well. Both of his hands are up in both surrender and fear.

The blue-eyed man nods, seeing that he had finally listened, and approaches with the gun still raised, “ _Good, kid, now just listen to me.”_

Dean’s nose, despite being coated in his own biologic, scrunches in disgust, anger, and refusal. His head cocks upwards as if to blow off the man’s order.

_“Hey!”_

Castiel tosses a free hand down to grab at the torn man’s jaw, “ _Look at me. You open your mouth, kid, and you look up at me.”_

His free hand slips away from Dean and down to his own dress pants and expertly unzips the zipper. His lower half throbs for attention, almost whimpering as Dean does. His tongue wriggles over his lips as his oceanic glare laps hungrily at the submissive Winchester. Dean gasps for air now, his body drifting from loss of blood. His eyes flutter behind maroon.

_“Hey! Wake-y wake-y, kid!”_

Castiel, rubbing a hand down himself, presses the gun sharply against Dean’s neck. The nozzle grits tightly into the bloody nap of flesh at Dean’s clavicle. The Winchester chokes on both the smearing reds and fright that linger in the air around him. His mouth hangs open, gasping; his eyes are wide despite the fact his vision is beginning to blur.

Cas, wasting no time, forces himself into Dean’s mouth, playing at the back of his throat.

An instinctive gag growls at the blue-eyed man’s member but to no avail, Castiel does not budge.

“ _I said, ‘Suck!’.”_

Dean, incoherent, obeys, bobbing his head around the man, closing his eyes as if to shut out Castiel, the alleyway, and the entire situation altogether. A loose moan grumbles behind each gag as the gun continues to bark against his throat. Castiel presses Dean’s face closer and closer, forcing the Winchester’s head to collide consistently with the brick wall behind him.

Minutes pass and the stars above begin to move with the clouds. In between gasps, Dean looks upwards for a sign of help but finds none but Castiel. His hands remain stationary, no longer able to fight. The ability for actually movement of any form would prove to be difficult as of this moment. Slowly, his grass-stained gaze filters out, spiraling into a scolding black. The Winchester’s mind slips into dormancy, and it would not awake for an hour or so.

* * *

The night was young when he first approached Castiel, but now he was nowhere in sight. A semi-translucent stick coats over dried rouge that smattered his broken features. Red neon still pattered playfully from above, bending around every carefully placed shadow and trash bin. Dean sat, still heaving, against the same brick wall. His jacket was gone, and so was his wallet and gun. _Son of a bitch,_ he thought, scrambling to his feet.

A few meters away laid his felted hat, and he made a varied effort to approach it. Hearing a few cracks as he bent over, he retrieved the fashion article.

“ _At least I got you.”_

Through the blood and other body fluids, the man wore a shit-eating grin. The night was still young, and the bass from inside the building that housed the alley signaled that the club was still alive. Standing up straight and brushing a hand over his rumpled tie, he aimed for the side-door of the club. Once inside, he would stamper into the bathroom.

His hands grabbed at the sink as his head was held up on strings. He stared back at a distorted creature within the frame of the mirror and found an odd glimmer of hope within it. _Now I don’t have to hide my face anymore,_ he thought, _no one'll know who the hell I am with a mug like this._ His grin grew into a raspy laugh as he turned the faucet on. He carefully rubbed warm water over the cuts and bruises of his face only to remove his blood-mottled dress shirt only to attempt to wash it in the filth-ridden sink. His torso, covered with greens and blue, shone with bruises. A quiet kiss of the nozzle of Castiel’s warm gun left an obvious hickey against the left side of his neck.

“ _Wonderful,”_ he muttered sarcastically.

Removing the tie, he hung it on a nearby hooking with no intention of keeping the torn fabrics. He continued washing at his wounds until they were nothing but mere slices and abrasions. His features were now free of the flush that composed his skin tone. Only bruises licked against his flesh now, and there was nothing he could do about that. Nothing more than the grand smile he wore could delineate what he felt.

He rung the water out from his shirt and, while slinging it over his bare shoulder, slithered out of the bathroom and into the main floor. His familiar hues fell over every person in the room, finding no one recognizable besides the barkeep. He grunted and skittered towards the bar, sliding into the seat from before. The tender serves him his previous order. Sipping at it, the experience is loudly halted by the sound of a female’s voice.

 _“Hey, big boy; wanna get out of here?”_ a nameless blonde inquires, raising a finger at the maroon shirt.

Dean stifles back the last of his booze and only shakes his head back, “ _You oughta have more sense than to take chances with strangers like this..”_  


End file.
